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Boring.
Boring, boring, boring .
There’s little else in the world that Sukuna detests more than the mundane, and that’s exactly what this godforsaken party is. The only reason that he chose to attend is because Uraume insisted that he at least show face since it would make the business look bad if their CEO were to be absent from the fashion world’s most extravagant banquet.
Sukuna’s just about to leave, Uraume’s wrath be damned, when he catches sight of something that might actually make his night worthwhile.
Across the room, dripping in jewelry from Sukuna ’s brand and clothed from head to toe in designer clothes with Sukuna’s name on them, sits the most gorgeous boy that Sukuna has ever laid eyes on.
He’s pale and lithe, bird boned and delicate-looking, horribly enchanting. The rouge painted on his cheeks compliments the scarlet tint of his full lips. Artfully tousled locks of ebony fall into half-lidded green eyes that are brushed with dark shimmer and lined with kohl, completing the moody pout that appears to be the boy’s default expression.
He also seems to be attached to Sukuna’s competitor, Gojo Satoru, if the way the CEO’s hand rests on the boy’s thigh means anything. It doesn’t really, though. Mean anything, that is.
Sukuna’s interest has been piqued and if he has to steal this treasure from under the other man’s nose, then so be it.
“Uraume.” Sukuna peers over the rim of his champagne and waits for Uraume’s gaze to follow his own to where the nameless boy is perched on Gojo’s lap. “Who's that?”
“The brooding one?” Uraume hums thoughtfully, scrolling through their phone. “Officially, he’s one of the models from the show earlier. Unofficially, he’s probably one of Gojo’s latest boytoys. You know how he gets when he and Geto fight.”
Sukuna waves an impatient hand in dismissal. He doesn’t know how this gem slipped under his radar for so long, but that’s something he’ll fix when he gets back to the office. And he couldn't care less about Gojo’s relationship troubles; he’s only concerned about one specific implication from Uraume’s words.
“So he's not taken, you mean,” Sukuna clarifies. If he looks a little harder, he can see the way the boy has subtly angled his body away from Gojo’s wandering hands. Interesting. “He's free game.”
Wariness colors Uraume’s usually frigid disposition. They don’t openly talk back to Sukuna, not when he's the one signing every check that goes into their account at the end of the month, but they've been by Sukuna’s side longer than anyone else has. They know what kind of trouble the glint in Sukuna’s eyes is inviting.
“Perhaps he wouldn't appreciate being… approached, Sukuna-sama,” Uraume begins delicately. “It doesn't seem like he wants to be here at all.”
Sukuna places his empty glass on a waiter’s passing tray and straightens his shoulders. There's not a single hair out of place on his head, but he smoothes the gelled strands of pink back and readjusts the thick watch on his wrist. Uraume sighs, giving in, and straightens his tie and jacket for him, nimble fingers correcting miniscule flaws.
“I can change that.”
Uraume sighs resignedly. “I’m sure you can, Sukuna-sama. Try not to do anything that will end up on the front cover tomorrow.”
Like Sukuna has to try to make the headlines. Please .
Somehow, Sukuna is lucky enough that the boy has migrated from Gojo’s side to the open bar in the back of the banquet hall. He’s holding a glass of something iced and hot pink. Adorable.
“I look good on you,” Sukuna drawls as he approaches. The boy’s eyes land on him. “Then again, everything must look good on you with a face like that.”
The boy blinks at him, slow and considering.
“Do I know you?” The words come out flatly, but Sukuna isn’t deterred.
He smiles.
“My name is Ryomen Sukuna,” Sukuna offers, his grin turning wry, “and I think you know exactly who I am, considering the fact that there isn’t a single thing you’re wearing that doesn’t have my name on it.”
The boy huffs quietly, but doesn’t turn Sukuna away. Sukuna takes the cue to sidle up to his side.
Sukuna flags the bartender down and gestures to the boy.
“I’ll have whatever my friend…” He trails off, just long enough for it to become awkward, until the boy sighs, “Fushiguro Megumi.”
“I’ll have whatever my friend Fushiguro Megumi is having, then,” Sukuna finishes with a triumphant smirk. It’s fitting that such a lovely little thing like Megumi would have a pretty name to match.
“It’s called a Barbie Dream,” Megumi says blandly, then sips on his drink.
“That’s cute.” Sukuna watches as his lips, glossy and red, wrap around the straw. “Perfect for a doll like you.”
At that, Megumi snorts. It’s a totally inelegant, almost obnoxious, noise but Sukuna is pleased. He wonders what a real laugh from Megumi’s lips would sound like.
"That was horrible,” Megumi remarks. He tilts his head and eyes Sukuna carefully, as if he’s really seeing him now. Inexplicably, for the first time in his life, Sukuna hopes that he measures up to someone else’s standards. It’s Megumi, though, so perhaps that makes it special. “But you’re still the most tolerable person I’ve met at this party.”
Sukuna wants to be a lot more than just tolerable. At first glance, Megumi was enchanting. Something pretty to look at and desire.
Now that Sukuna’s talked to him, though, he’s become enthralling. The very beauty that had drawn Sukuna in has shown itself to be a delicate mask for something sharper, edgier, that lies beneath the surface.
Fushiguro Megumi is breathtakingly, wonderfully, terribly interesting and Sukuna won’t be letting him out of his sight anytime soon. Not when there’s so much left to learn, so much left to savor from this boy.
“Don’t be too flattered,” Megumi continues, disdain pinching his sharp features. “As usual, the only thing worse than this party are the people who came.”
There’s a brief pause as Sukuna drinks in the sight of Megumi’s profile, neglecting his actual drink (that smells of pink lemonade and vodka, meaning that Sukuna will not be taking a single sip of it) as the boy looks out at the crowd. Megumi conspicuously averts his gaze from the corner of the room where Gojo is holding court to what seems to be a gaggle of Instagram models.
“If you hate parties like this so much, then why did you come on Satoru’s arm?” The use of Gojo’s first name is intentional, a casual display of Sukuna’s superiority.
Look , Sukuna is saying, utterly shameless. I have more money, more power, than him. I'm better than him.
The corners of Megumi’s lips jump in a split-second grin and Sukuna knows that the boy has read between the lines. So he is bright, as well.
“Gojo-sama,” the boy stresses the honorific so strongly that it can’t be anything other than mocking, “proposed an offer that was difficult to refuse. He knows I like nice things.”
Sukuna arches a brow. If Megumi wants luxury , then Sukuna will give it to him. He’ll give him everything Gojo could and more, because he can.
He would give this boy every stock to his name, an indefinite sponsorship, the written deed to his company– if only he asked with those jade eyes of his. If he asked Sukuna, by name, with those tempting lips of his.
Sukuna takes a step closer. He's well aware of how he looms over Megumi, the boy’s head barely reaching chin-level on him, and so he takes advantage of it. Charmingly, Megumi doesn’t seem all that impressed.
“Really, now.” The space between them disappears when Sukuna takes another step and his chest bumps against Megumi’s. “Do you?”
“I like nice things,” Megumi breathes in agreement. He hasn’t so much as warmed to Sukuna than he has allowed Sukuna to be graced with his presence, it seems. “I like nice men, too. Ones who treat me well and buy me pretty toys.”
“Then baby,” and oh , that makes Megumi’s lashes flutter so unexpectedly, so beautifully, “you shouldn't be with him. He isn't a nice man.”
Heat stirs in Sukuna’s gut when Megumi’s eyes drift up to meet his, dazed and playful. He wants this, always– to be the sole recipient of Megumi’s attention, to be the only one that Megumi looks for.
“Are you a nice man, Sukuna-sama?” Megumi’s voice is hardly a whisper.
Sukuna’s grin is a slow, hungry thing that leaves his teeth bared in a tamer imitation of a snarl. He notices Megumi’s gaze flicking down, taking in the sharp points of his canines and the savage curl of his lip.
“Not quite,” Sukuna murmurs darkly. He finally reaches out and settles his hands on Megumi’s slim waist. When he uses his grip to pull their bodies flush together, Megumi follows easily with absolutely no resistance.
“But I can be anything you want. Come to me, Fushiguro Megumi.”
Megumi melts the slightest degree into his touch, into his embrace, and Sukuna knows that he has him— hook, line, and sinker.